A Story Untold
by the word crafter
Summary: The beginnings of the Weasley clan at Ottery-St.-Catchpole.
1. Quidditch

Chapter One

The locker room was cold and damp. The rumble of the voices of seven energetic adolescents was only slightly muffled by the deafening roar of an impatient crowd; from which the only separation was a pair of wooden double-doors.

"You ready?" yelled a tall, blonde fifth-year, Louisa Reynolds, lifting her oiled broomstick high in the air. Her question was met with a confident cheer from her six teammates, who in turn shoved their mounts high above their heads.

"Ready, captain!" they yelled loudly, shaking the small room.

"Captain, then Keeper, then Chasers, then Beaters, then Seeker," she reminded them. "Got to keep up appearances, for McGonagall's sake," she said cheerily, referring to her team's Head of House, whose desire for propriety was feared and renowned among the entire student body.

Louisa faced her players. She saw what most captains hoped to see from a team—six determined, agile players—who knew their sport and exhibited the proper balance of confidence and caution—who were bent on winning, even though the odds were stacked against them. But there was nothing to guarantee that this group of players could overcome anyone, much less the skilled and militaristic Slytherin team.

There was Richard Simmons; Gryffindor's wily Keeper. He could block the goalposts as well as any, but there had been times when his own cleverness confused him. Greer Sinclair, Amelia Bones, and Dottie Tuckfield were her reliable Chasers. Herself and Raymond Fischer were the team's Beaters—with powerful swing, aim, and skill. And then there was their Seeker. Little Molly Prewett, only twelve years old, but possessing most unusual sight, skill, and speed, was the youngest player on the team. Her fiery red mane was visible from clear across the Quidditch field, but resembled more a shooting star when she sighted the elusive Snitch.

"Alright then," said Louisa. "Play well, play hard, and play fair."

She swung open the heavy wooden double-doors and led her team, decked in glittering red and gold, out onto the Quidditch field.

* * *

><p>Now, even though this had been her dream for coming on a year, butterflies exploded in Molly's stomach, and her vision became fuzzy. She held her broom, one of the school's shiny Cleansweep 5s, in a ferocious death grip—and although in just a moment, it would transport her high into the sky, for the moment it was the only thing that kept her solidly on the ground.<p>

Around her, the stadium rose up imposingly. The Gryffindor side of the pitch boasted brilliant red and gold hangings. Opposite them was a solid sea of green and silver Slytherins, who jeered as the Gryffindor team marched forcefully across the field. In the middle was a sea of undetermined students, members of the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff houses, who often opted to stay neutral in these games. In the commentator's tower, erected on the west side of the pitch, stood Rolanda Hooch, at the commentator's podium, and Professor McGonagall, anxiously surveying her house's team.

Molly's eyes next swiveled to the Gryffindors. From the solid sea of Gryffindors she sought out Mafalda Hopkirk, her best friend—and seeing her, let out an audible sight of relief. It was Mafalda who'd encouraged Molly to try out for the Quidditch team when she'd thought of giving it up—and Mafalda who'd been there for Molly whenever she needed a friend. Now, she gave Molly a reassuring wave.

Finally, Molly turned her gaze towards the center of the field, where Mr. Ferris, the Quidditch coach and referee, stood, hands on hips, waiting for the convergence of the two teams' captains.

"Shake hands!" ordered the Mr. Ferris. Molly saw Louisa clench her fists before offering one of them to the burly and commanding Slytherin captain—a tall seventh-year with long, silvery hair; Lucius Malfoy. He grinned, looking over the silent Gryffindor team with anticipation, as a hungry ogre would survey his next meal.

"Mount your brooms, players!" yelled Mr. Ferris.

Molly, heart pounding uncharacteristically fast, mounted her Cleansweep. Mr. Ferris blew the whistle, and with an almighty heave she pushed off of the soft green turf and into the air.

"And they're off!" came a cry from the commentator's podium. Rolanda Hooch lifted her wand high into the air, setting off a shower of green and red sparks that spelled _THE GAME HAS BEGUN._ The scoreboard suspended in midair next to the commentator's tower was set "0-0."

"Fans of the reigning Slytherin team will be pleased to note that it has added a new all-star player to its ranks; Bellatrix Black, an agile fourth-year who isn't afraid to push her limits. She's the new Seeker." The Slytherin side of the stands exploded as their new player flew about madly in a wild attempt at a victory lap.

Molly looked up, searching for the opposing Seeker. Her brown eyes met the startling black ones of Bellatrix, who grinned eerily, pulling her broom into a long, choppy dive. Molly shook her head, her violent fiery hair whipping in the early September breeze, trying to dismiss the sudden dizziness that had overcome her.

"Gryffindor has also added a Seeker, Molly Prewett, who replaced Yves Scragg, after he graduated last spring," added the Rolanda. Loud cheers erupted from the Gryffindor side, flags and scarves waving madly, the wind generously fueling their excitement.

"And Greer Sinclair has taken the Quaffle!" yelled Rolanda. "She's speeding towards the Slytherin hoops. She passes to Dottie Tuckfield, who dodges Slytherin Keeper Antonin Crowley—she scores! 10 points to Gryffindor!"

The stands exploded. Molly watched Bellatrix. She was moving with the deftness of a Quidditch player, but she had no obvious skill. The Slytherin Seeker was merely brute force; a bull on a broom, and Molly was positive she could beat her if only she kept her eyes open for the elusive Snitch.

The wind howled menacingly around the young Seeker, as if itching to throw her off her broom. As she swooped about the field, eyes searching desperately for the Snitch, she noticed a slight change in Bellatrix's attitude. Previously nonchalant, she had stiffened slightly, her eyes wide and a small grin playing at the edges of her thin mouth.

Molly followed her gaze, slowly realizing that she had sighted the object of her search. Carefully, so as not to around Bellatrix's suspicion, she drifted aimlessly in the other direction. She could almost feel her opponent's glee as she believed she had tricked Molly; but with a reel of power, Molly swung her broom around, racing towards the Snitch, now within yards of her longing grasp.

Bellatrix, eyes wide in fury, raced to catch up, her angry screams echoing in the stadium as if a crowd of banshees had joined the teams. Molly's breath rushed from her mouth in short gasps. She saw the Snitch, just feet ahead, and reached out an arm to grab the fluttering golden ball.

With a yell of anger and a flash of light, the Gryffindor Seeker fell towards the grassy ground. She saw her rider-less broom above her. She saw Bellatrix's triumphant gaze as she watched her opponent fall—and turn to look for the Snitch. She saw the sky, stretching out like a warm blanket. But the falling girl realized with a rush of hope that her right hand was clutching a wriggling, winged golden ball.

The world went black.

* * *

><p>Arthur Weasley lifted his eyes from the small book resting in his palms as the roar of the crowd snapped into silence. He saw the girl fall. She was two years his junior—they had never spoken before, his relation to her nonexistent.<p>

But as he watched her fall he felt his heart stop, his face slacken, his shoulders shake with an uncontrollable fear. He rose to his feet, dropping the book, his action mirrored by the other watching Gryffindors around him. Arthur realized then that this was the most scared he'd ever been in his life, watching this unknown, fiery-haired Seeker plunge to her fate.

Thoughts flitted through his mind in the few seconds of her descent. Why was she falling? He noticed the black-haired girl, circling above her gleefully, and his fists clenched angrily. Question answered. But then, why was nobody reaching out a wand to save her. They were all frozen bastards, unsure of when to act, what to do.

Arthur lifted his left arm, his wand arm, high up in the air, pointing at the girl. He flicked his wrist, hurriedly crying "Arresto Momentum!"

She hovered, inches from the ground, her face turned upwards towards the shining sun. Her long, brilliant red hair grazed the turf beneath her. Her robes hung down from her body, her broom, smashed on the ground beside her.

Across the field, high in the stands, Arthur shivered. Although the late summer breeze did not bother him, he felt chills travel up and down his spine as he stood, shaking, his eyes watering.

Silence enveloped the field. All eyes were drawn to the girl who hung suspended in midair, inches from death.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

A thousand thoughts ripped through his mind, forming and decomposing, each as helpless as the next. He anxiously flitted through the ways he could have done it better. Maybe if he'd been a little quicker, used a different spell, aimed a little more accurately, she wouldn't be lying in a cold bed in the Hospital Wing, her eyes closed, showing no signs of life, save the faint breathing that shuddered through her small body every ten seconds or so.

It was impossible to banish her from his mind, for when he closed his eyes the imprint of her face, her bright, fiery hair, was left on the backs of his eyelids. He could not seem to figure out if this constant presence plagued him or sustained his weakened heart. Nevertheless, he tried to shut her out, because he feared feeling in his gut, the feeling that it was all a dream.

* * *

><p>"She's not woken up once," a voice whispered, its owner merely a faint shadow against heavy curtains.<p>

Molly shifted uncomfortably under the thick woolen blankets, lifting her head from the indent in the downy pillow upon which her head had been resting—for days now. Noiselessly, she waited for the inevitable response.

"The poor girl," murmured another voice, followed by murmured assents about the room.

But which room was that? Molly realized with a shock that she did not know where she was. She could only assume she was in her bed, in Gryffindor Tower, but she supposed that that was just wishful thinking. Instead, she waited, listening to the conversation of the bodiless, faceless voices about her.

"We'll have to transfer to her to Saint Mungo's soon if she is not revived by the day after next," added the first voice. "Not a move I'm looking forward to—some of those Healers are quite thick-skulled, have no patience for new remedies…"

"Ah, Poppy, don't be too upset. After all, they are quite advanced, I hear," said yet another voice, this one male. With a flash of comprehension, she recognized the voice as Professor Dumbledore's. "She'll be well taken care of."

"Yes, yes, professor, I suppose," said Poppy, begrudgingly. "Well, I'll go and check on her, if you don't mind. Continue, continue," she said, after a moment's pause.

Check on her? Her? Was that…Molly? Before she could think, Molly threw herself back onto her pillow, ignoring the earsplitting pain whining in her head. She drew up the heavy covers, and feigned sleep.

A hand reached inside of the curtains, drawing them slowly and painstakingly, seemingly attempting to avoid any noise. Molly kept her face slack and expressionless. Feeling something above her, she allowed her eyes to flicker open the tiniest bit. Above her, she saw Madam Pomfrey, Hogwarts' head Healer, who nursed students in the Hospital Wing.

Was that were she was, she wondered, as she shut her eyes again? In the Hospital Wing? But why _ever_ would she be there? As she felt Madam Pomfrey retreat and the curtains close, Molly let herself breathe—only then realizing that she'd been restraining it.

"No," said Madam Pomfrey sadly. "She's still asleep, Minerva." A collective sigh swept the Hospital Wing.

"Well, I'd best be off to Gryffindor Tower," murmured Professor McGonagall wearily. "Nobody's been able to sleep since the match and it's all I can do to keep them in their rooms."

"And I, too, should be on my way," said Professor Dumbledore. "The night is still young and I have yet to finish my book. Have you ever heard of it? _Hogwarts, A History. _By none other than Bathilda Bagshot," he added. "Goodnight, Poppy."

"I'll send word if she wakes up," said Madam Pomfrey. "Although it's a long shot, I suppose." The doors of the Hospital Wing closed with a thud, and Molly was left to her thoughts.

What was going on? Why was she in the Hospital Wing? What had happened to her?

* * *

><p>It was nearly impossible to see his face. It was buried underneath a sea of what wasn't there, what wasn't visible to the average passerby.<p>

Arthur Weasley was hunched over a book in the Gryffindor common room, trying to ignore the stares and whispers directed towards him—none of which he'd ever have the power to return. He hated confrontations, and quite honestly, he was sick of the attention.

They wouldn't leave him alone. Since he'd cast that quick spell, preventing the death of young Molly Prewett (for that, he learned, was her name), he had simply been the target of awed conversations, the topic of interest for the majority of the school.

"That's him!" whispered an excited first year to her friend. "He's the one!"

Her friend nodded, equally as impressed, staring avidly at him. He buried his nose deeper into the book, trying to envelop himself in the comprehension of the Muggle Underground system. It was hard to concentrate, however. Giggles, murmurs, and titters constantly erupted about him. He'd had enough, but, shy as he was, he couldn't do much about them except flee.

Wherever he went, he was shadowed by groups of wily Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and sometimes even Hufflepuff girls, each vying for his attention. He didn't understand it. He was the same person as he'd been before—tall, ginger, freckled, and generally social incompetent—but ever since the Quidditch match he hadn't had a moment's peace. Even his roommates had taken to whispering behind his back.

And not all of the attention was friendly, or even positive. Bellatrix Lestrange, perpetrator of the wild curse that'd sent Molly flying, was holed up in some remote part of the castle, isolated from her fellow Slytherins, who took it upon themselves to glare furiously at him as they passed him in the corridors on the way to class, lunch, and Gryffindor Tower.

The only thing that stayed, ever present, in his mind, was the aching worry for the Seeker. After Dumbledore had magicked her onto a stretcher and led her towards the castle, he'd not caught a single glimpse of her. Visitors weren't allowed, and quite honestly, if he'd even tried to make his way there to check up on her, a whole school of anxious girls, tittering and giggling as they walked, would follow him, as if he was some sort of hero.

Nevertheless, he thought constantly of the redheaded girl, of those few seconds in which he'd been so, so scared, and when he'd joined the standing Gryffindors, sending a charm to stop her fall…he relived it in slow motion, longing to see her face, longing for some indication that she'd be alright.

"Excuse me, Mr. Weasley, but we are currently on page 394."

Arthur's head snapped up. "Oh, yes, I'm very sorry, professor," he mumbled.

"No worries, Arthur. I quite understand if you're a bit…thoughtful," replied his professor amicably.

Arthur quickly flipped his textbook to the appropriate page, stopping when he saw a picture of a werewolf, pawing angrily at the picture frame as if trying to escape. Since he'd seen the non-moving Muggle photographs, he'd never been able to view those of the wizarding world in quite the same way. Yawning, he proceeded to read about the effects of a werewolf bite, trying to banish all thoughts of Molly Prewett from his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

Madam Pomfrey rose in the early hours of the morning, as was her custom, to check up on the Hospital Wing's patients, apply ointments, and give pills and medicines to the group of invalids. When she drew open the curtains to Molly's bed and found her staring into space, but definitely awake, the school was sent into an uproar. Even the imposing Poppy Pomfrey was unable to keep the hordes of sympathetic Gryffindor students, dying to visit the heroic Seeker who'd been cursed off her broomstick but still managed to win them the game. Even supporters from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff paid her visits. Molly was laden down with hundreds of wellwishing, get-well, and congratulations cards. Sifting through them seemed a daunting, and next-to-impossible, task.

Through these many brief visits, Molly was able to piece together a vague version of the events that unrolled at the Quidditch game. She gathered that the Slytherin Seeker, Bellatrix Black, had cursed her from her broom as Molly was reaching for the Snitch, desperate not to lose the game, and that she had fallen towards the ground.

"You were falling, and you probably would've _died_," explained a group of excited first-year Gryffindor girls, "if Arthur Weasley—" giggles erupted amongst them, "—hadn't stopped you."

"Arthur Weasley?" said Molly, frowning. "Who's Arthur Weasley?"

The group of girls fell silent, seemingly shocked that she did not know.

"He's the boy who _saved _you."

* * *

><p>"He might be the boy who saved you but he's also the one soaking up all of your attention," said Mafalda Hopkirk, sitting next to Molly on her hospital bed. "Take my word, Arthur Weasley is basking in the sunlight of a million devoted admirers all because of <em>your<em> heroism."

Mafalda, Molly's best friend, had come to see her on the afternoon of her first day revived. She was pleased to see that Molly had made a full and unimpeded recovery, but had also wanted to relay the events of the past few days.

"After you fell (and after they found out you caught the Snitch, too!), you were stretchered off to the Hospital Wing. First, everyone was silent, but then Headmaster Dippet sent us back our dormitories. He seemed to think it was _best_," she said scathingly. "When all we wanted was to make sure you weren't—" she paused, then said, "—dead."

"We'd all seen you fall, you know. It was quite spectacular, unless you count half the Gryffindors pissing themselves with worry (me included.) Then that great buffoon Arthur Weasley waved his wand and he stopped you. Of course, you wouldn't have hit the ground anyways, Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore and Dippet and Slughorn and Flitwick and Kettleburn already had their wands raised, but he _had _to go and steal quite a bit of spotlight, didn't he? For once stopped reading up on Muggles and instead decided to save your life, because he fancied some glory?

"Well, after that it was uproar, I promise you. After the quiet there was a huge explosion of noise. First Mr. Ferris forced that Bellatrix girl to come down—hexed her broom, or something, I think—and Professor Slughorn blustered around about _disgracing the Slytherin name_—and he escorted her back into the castle, but quite honestly I just think he was more shocked than upset.

"Oh, and then everyone started crowding around Arthur. He was putting up a good show, pretending to be horrorstruck and that he didn't care that throngs of Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and even _Hufflepuffs _(!) were crowding about him, treating him like a hero and such and just gawping. I, of course, saw right through his act."

Mafalda paused to talk a break, glancing over at her bedridden friend to see if she was listening. Molly was leaning against the backboard, eyes open wide, watching her friend intently, waiting for the next part of the story.

"It's my job, you know, to protect you, seeing as you're my best friend," added Mafalda lazily. "So I quite quickly drew attention away from that ginger prick—not you, no, _you _don't look like a prick—by declaring quite loudly that I was worried about you (which of course, I was, anyways.) They abandoned him and began positively writhing with fright, with whispers and such.

"Now, of course, he's got all of the attention back and is trying to steal your glory, or whatever it is you Quidditch players call it. You're the only one who can stop him from completely taking over the school and setting all of his Muggle-loving rules on us. We can't have it, I _won't _have it, and you'll be able to change it up."

Quite pleased with herself and her story, Mafalda rested comfortably on her elbows, waiting for the response that was sure to come from her friend.

Molly shifted nervously. She wasn't used to this kind of potential attention—and even now, being in the limelight just felt wrong. Quite honestly, she didn't care if the Weasley boy "stole all of her glory"—because all she'd done was fall a hundred feet. It wasn't anything to be proud of, although Mafalda did seemed quite pleased. Drawing her bedspread up to her chin, feigning cold, she murmured,

"Well, it's all the in past now. I expect this will all die down in a few days."

"Whatever you say, Molly," said Mafalda patronizingly. "Well, I really must get back to the Gryffindor common room, Professor Flitwick has assigned us a full scroll on the difference between _Wingardium Leviosa_, and _Arresto Momentum_. I think the entire school's been inspired by your plunge," added Mafalda thoughtfully. "I might stop by after supper, did you hear there's a feast tonight? Too bad you'll be missing it, they're serving your favorite meal: roast beef, mashed potatoes, and peas."

As Molly waved her out, she wondered at the strength of her friend's jaw. If it had been her, it would be falling off by now.

* * *

><p>Molly's confinement settling into an achingly dull routine. Madam Pomfrey allowed visitors between 9:00 in the morning to going on 11:00. After that, she distributed midday medications to her patients and reapplied Molly's casts and bandages. Unfortunately, because of the number of broken bones in Molly's body, Madam Pomfrey had decided it was wisest to simply let them mend themselves properly, without the use of the wizard's tonic Skele-Grow. Even with healing charms, it would take Molly a good three weeks before she could walk, or go back to classes.<p>

After the lunch hour, Molly was left to rest, or sift through the ever-growing pile of cards and chocolate boxes, or perhaps engage in small talk with the other patients, all of whom seemed sufficiently awed by the bandages that covered her body and the story behind them—awed enough, that is, to clam up after whispering a nervous "hullo." In any case, most of them were gone by the next evening.

On her third day awake, Molly received a letter from her parents, delivered by their weary, aging owl, Truffle, who flopped dispiritedly at Molly's feet after seeing that she'd opened the envelope.

_Dear Molly, _

_Ever since we heard of your accident we've been senseless with worry. Dad's been crazy with anxiety, guilty, I expect, because he taught you how to play the sport that landed you in the Hospital Wing! I do hope Madam Pomfrey has been taking good care of you—but I'm confident you're in good hands. Poppy always was quite the healer._

_We can't wait to see you come Christmastime. Your father and I have been missing you terribly, and especially so after we heard the news. We would be up at Hogwarts, I promise you, if not for your father's job. He's been loaded with paperwork and can't leave at the moment—also, our broomsticks have been malfunctioning recently. But again, we are very excited to see you in December—and Gideon and Fabian will all be there as well!_

_All My Love and Best Wishes, _

_Mother_

Molly folded the note up with a genial smile on her face. She was pleased to hear of her family and touched (though not surprised) that they were worried for her. She lay back, relaxed, on her pillow, letting the late afternoon sunlight seeping through the colorful stained-glass-windows shroud her in heat.

* * *

><p>"Excuse me."<p>

Molly's eyes flickered open. She realized she was curled up in a fetal position. Had she been sleeping? Quickly, she propped herself up on both elbows, blinking as bright light temporarily impeded her vision.

When her eyes cleared, she found herself looking into the unmistakable face of Arthur Weasley.


	4. Chapter 4

"You're Arthur," breathed Molly absently.

"I'm Arthur," agreed the boy pleasantly. "And you're Molly Prewett, Gryffindor Seeker, the girl who almost killed herself during her first game." He found, to his pleasure, that all of the pent up worries of the past couple of days had flooded miraculously from his stream of consciousness, and, now that he was faced with the girl in person, he was actually quite casual.

"That's true," she replied thoughtfully. "Although it wasn't on purpose!" She laughed.

"No, no," he said, seriously. "Most certainly not on purpose." Arthur cringed at the thought. He remembered her falling, her flailing limbs searching desperately for some hold on the air, her hair whipping about her, as though she'd caught on fire…he gulped, his eyes brimming with unexpected tears. He blinked them back, unsure of how even to respond to his own reaction. Crying? Arthur shook his head as if to clear his mind of the confused thoughts that stumbled through it.

Molly fumbled with her next words, unable to phrase the sentence she'd been reworking in her mind every since she'd awakened.

"Thank you, Arthur," she murmured quietly. "I really do owe you my life, now. Now that you've saved it, I mean," she added quickly.

The boy flinched perceptibly. "You don't owe me anything. I only did what any sensible person would've done in my situation." He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. This show of appreciation was somehow more embarrassing than the hundreds of other times people had called him a hero in the past few days. But somehow, it was far better.

"That's just the thing," Molly said. "No one else did. I'm prepared to believe I would've hit the ground if you hadn't raised your wand. It's a thought I don't like to think—" Arthur shivered, "—and it seems you don't like to, either. So, thank you. And I _do _owe you a big one." She grinned. "But don't make the favor _too_ big, okay?"

Arthur grinned. "No worries, Molly." Inside his mind raged a tumultuous storm—its origins or meaning, he did not know. Instead, he focused on the moment. For that moment was perfect.

* * *

><p>Mafalda Hopkirk was the second daughter of Richie and Lucinda Hopkirk, two middle-aged Muggles who had never dreamt of anything beyond the ordinary. Richie worked as a lawyer for a large, multinational corporation, and Lucinda stayed at home and met with society friends for tea. They led a peaceful, average existence, and when Mafalda had received her letter, it had been disrupted.<p>

At first they'd been shocked.

"A witch? Impossible. She was born and bred to a family of proud Scots."

Next, they'd been appalled.

"What a derogatory term to use in referring to an eleven-year-old girl."

Following that, anger bubbled.

"I will simply _not _allow it! Magic in the house! No! It'll be a cold day in hell when…"

Finally, the couple had been resigned.

"At least she'll be out of the house for the school year."

In the months approaching her departure for the school, her parents' anxiety had heated to boiling point. It was a point of pride for Richie that his clients admire the perfection of his family, but with one daughter sent to boarding school and the other two clamoring to follow, it seemed unlikely that his home would ever be as appealing again. To Lucinda, her children were the bane of her motherhood. To join groups such as the Mother's Club of Greater London, one had to be, in fact, a mother, and a good one. If one of her daughters was a _witch_, she highly doubted she'd be accepted, or even allowed to remain, in any of those societies.

Mafalda's sisters, Briar and Gwendolyn, were positively stunned when her sister received the letter. Her old sibling, Briar, was two years her senior and had never been given any such letter, especially any letter delivered by a tawny, speckled owl. Furious and jealous, she'd locked her middle sister from her life.

On the other hand, Gwendolyn, who was just a year younger than Mafalda, was excited to receive her own. It seemed, however, unlikely, because she'd shown no signs of magic in her childhood years. Mafalda was quite possibly the only Hopkirk child to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a fact that angered her sisters and merely confused her parents.

It was rainy when they drove to King's Cross Station, and it was with a heavy, empty heart that Mafalda breached the barrier to Platform 9 ¾. The rest of her family, being Muggles, could not permeate the otherwise solid brick wall—and so they said their goodbyes in front of it.

"Be good," whispered Lucinda through her tears. Her father wrapped her in a warm hug. Mafalda's sisters watched jealously, each murmuring insincere farewells, as she ran towards the dividing barrier and disappeared onto the hidden station.

The platform was noisy and smoky, the steam from the Hogwarts Express floating above the heads of young witches and wizards bidding goodbye to their wizarding families. Owls flapped merrily in their cages, and trunks were pushed towards the open doors of the trains, lifted into the luggage compartments by cheerful porters.

Clutching to her carry-on bag, Mafalda allowed her trunk to be taken by a kindly young woman outfitted in a concierge's uniform. She slipped onto the train, her heart beating madly, and sat down in an empty compartment.

It was on the Hogwarts Express that she'd met Molly, and it was on the train that she'd met her best friend.

* * *

><p>Now, Mafalda felt that her duty as Molly's closest and most caring friend had been fulfilled. By uncovering Arthur's glory-seeking behavior and exposing him to her as a righteous git, she'd protected Molly from the potential devastation of heartbreak. She'd heard that Arthur was a dork, to put it simply, and that he loved nothing better than Muggles. Mafalda had needed to save her best, her only friend from what could've been. Because, quite honestly, Molly was all that Mafalda had.<p> 


End file.
